


hold your head in deep devotion

by heavensfallingaroundus



Series: AM [3]
Category: 1917 (RPF), British Actor RPF, Fleabag (TV) RPF, Irish Actor RPF, Scottish Actor RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Body Image, Body Worship, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Muscle Worship, Praise Kink, Priest Kink, Richard probably has body dysmorphia, Silk Bondage, Submission, but you're welcome all the same, forgive me Father for I have sinned, no-one will read this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22246354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus
Summary: Richard is really,reallytired of young partners.Luckily, the world premiere for1917rolls around, and Andrew with it.And champagne.And silk.And the best night of his life.
Relationships: Andrew Scott/Richard Madden
Series: AM [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1427662
Comments: 40
Kudos: 88





	hold your head in deep devotion

**Author's Note:**

> Good evening, one and all.
> 
> Let me preface this by saying that I'm aware that approximately five people in the whole of the Archive will read this, and I think I'm okay with it. I just had to get it out of my system, I think.
> 
> This whole thing started on December 4, 2019, when the world was blessed by the likes of Richard Madden and Andrew Scott showing up on the red carpet in frankly _indecently sexy_ outfits.
> 
> [This photo](https://www.instagram.com/p/B5qaoNxlrPP/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) happened (and many, many more, to be fair), and I just couldn't stop myself. It's like my fingers couldn't work fast enough to keep up with my brain. D'you ever get anything like that?
> 
> Anyways. Dumbassery aside. This is nothing but indulgent, kinky porn, rotating around the general idea that Richard Madden loves to be taken care of, and that it definitely takes an older man for it to be done properly.
> 
> This is for my friends and relentless enablers, [drinkingstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkingstars/pseuds/drinkingstars) and [supposeforthesakeof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supposeforthesakeof), who kept banging on about this until I finished it. Bless you. I love you.
> 
> Disclaimer: this is entirely unbetaed, so if you do see some mistakes or incoherences in it, it's totally normal.
> 
> Please, have this little piece of my mind. It's yours.

They’ve just had to stand in a line like a bunch of trained dogs and smile politely and make empty conversation with the Prince of fucking Wales and the Duchess of fucking Cornwall, and Richard has had just about enough of this evening, thank you very much.

He eyes Mark imploringly, waits for him to mouth _go on, then_ , and finally gets out into the chilly London air with his lighter and his Camels and—fuck, it’s freezing, how was this a good idea again?

Ah, nevermind. He’s out now. Might as well make the most of it.

He picks a fag out of his packet, slightly wets the filter between his lips to make it easier to hold on to in case he has to talk to someone—he will forever love Cillian Murphy for that one, by the way—and he flicks his Zippo.

He catches his reflection in the glass door he’s facing, and his mind inevitably goes back a few hours—his apartment, Gareth next to him, admiring his work with a proud glint in his eyes—and he remembers thinking that, for once, he didn’t look half bad. Even served a sly smirk on the red carpet and everything. He _thought_ he looked good. He really did.

But then he saw Andrew. Andrew’s outfit. And Andrew’s face, and his body, and the way he holds himself, and the overall energy about him, and he proceeded to feel embarrassingly starstruck, slightly underdressed, and just generally _unworthy_. The moment when he laid eyes on Andrew was the precise instant when he was absolutely sure he was in the presence of royalty. And, sure, Charles and Camilla might be _actual_ royalty—but Richard’s had eyes only for Andrew all night.

Which is why it feels like a very peculiar combination of circumstances when, as he’s taking the first puff, and thinking of how partial he’d be to take Andrew home tonight, the door in front of him would open, and out of it would come strutting the man himself, wearing a big smile on his handsome face, holding two glasses of champagne, and positively _glowing_ in his burgundy velvet tux.

The fucking velvet tux.

Oh and… yep, Richard’s inhaled way too quickly, and now he’s very smoothly coughing his way through a one-to-one rendezvous with Andrew Scott. Way to go, Richard. Way to go.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on, darling?” the soft Irish burr comes to the rescue, as Richard brings a hand in front of his mouth to try and maintain at least an ounce of composure. Andrew bends down to rest the glasses on the ground, then gets up again and starts caressing Richard’s back, soothingly.

They’re so close, and he smells _divine_.

“Those _will_ kill you, y’know?” he says, chuckling.

“Faster than expected, apparently,” Richard agrees, wiping a few tears from his eyes. Wow. This never happens to him. _Ever_. So, of course, it should start happening now.

“Mind if I bum you one? Technically quitting, but I allow myself the occasional slip when I’m out with handsome men at world premieres.”

Richard raises an eyebrow at him and takes a drag off his cigarette. “And that happens a lot, dunnit?”

“More often than you know,” he says rolling his eyes. “All the pretty boys, Richard. It’s a _nightmare_ ,” he sighs, dramatically, as he runs a hand through his hair. “I mean, it’s all fun and games until you hit the big four-oh. And then, well, having to keep up is _exhausting_. Thank you, darling,” he adds, as Richard is offering him his open pack. He picks a cigarette out of it, and he puts it between his lips.

“May I?” Richard offers, flicking the lighter once again and smiling at Andrew.

“Mind the eyebrows, please,” Andrew warns, smirking.

“Don’t worry, I’m a seasoned professional,” Richard says, confidently. “My eyebrow burn record is squeaky clean.”

He observes as Andrew’s smile widens, he moves in closer, the end of his cigarette touches the flame, and he hollows his cheeks to take his first drag.

Christ, he’s stunning.

“Can I just say, Andrew,” Richard says, feeling bold all of a sudden. “What you just mentioned, about “keeping up”? That is utter gobshite. You outshined us _all_ , tonight, love.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Andrew says, shaking his head and plucking the cigarette from his lips with his thumb and index finger. “I was mad they made me stand next to you, of all people. You were the star of that fecking red carpet.”

“And you really should stop whatever it is you’re doing with this,” Richard says, as he makes air circles with his hand in Andrew’s direction, “because I’m pretty sure you’re breaking the goddamned Internet. I logged onto Instagram for like five seconds—it’s _mayhem_ , out there. And they’re all screaming _your_ name.”

Andrew, well, blushes. One of the most confident gay men in the industry, and Richard’s got him to _blush_. Maybe he’s off to a better start than he’d expected, after all.

“I think I need that bubbly, _noo_ ,” Andrew says, quite literally vanishing in a cloud of smoke as he bends down again to retrieve both glasses. “One for me, one for you. Cheers, gorgeous.”

“Cheers,” Richard says, clinking his glass against Andrew’s. “To a brief but definitely intense time spent wearing uniforms and rolling in the mud.”

“Filthy business,” Andrew replies, taking a sip of his wine and humming contently as he swallows. “Fuck, this is good.”

“Aye, it really is. Thank you for thinking of a wee lad poisoning himself out in the cold when you picked up two instead of one.”

“My pleasure, darling. You seemed a bit lost, back there. Looked like you needed one, really. And some company, maybe?” Andrew asks, tentatively.

“Not wrong there, that’s for sure,” Richard admits, taking another swig of champagne, opting to look away from Andrew and suddenly finding the accumulation of ash at the end of his cigarette very interesting indeed. “Never got used to all the glitz, I’m afraid. Plus, I’m newly single, and I feel like I should impress even more, these days. My Ma is here, tonight. I think she’s on the hunt for my next flame on my behalf—never asked her to do it, by the way. She just really wants some grandkids, I think.”

“And what do _you_ want, Richard?” Andrew asks. Richard raises his gaze again, and he’s met by an extremely curious look in the man’s eyes.

“Honestly?” Richard asks, discarding the cigarette butt and crushing it under his dress shoe.

“Honestly,” Andrew replies.

“I’d be happy with just a dog, at the moment. Big, fluffy bastard, though. One that takes up a lot of space, sheds a lot of hair, eats a lot of food, and gives me lots of love,” he declares. Then, just as Andrew is bringing a hand to his heart and pouting his lower lip in the universal body language for _bless you_ , he thinks he’d better test the waters and add something else to his little speech. “Oh, and maybe also someone who’d take care of me. Maybe my Ma is right about that—I do need a partner. But I’m definitely, one hundred percent over all the damned youngsters I somehow got roped into dating for the past couple of years. The last one was… _ugh_ ,” Richard shudders at the memory.

“Can’t say I haven’t been through that one too, darling. I’m sorry,” Andrew says, sympathetically, coming closer and squeezing Richard’s bicep through all the layers of fabric he’s wearing.

And that’s nice. He wants more of _that_. More Andrew touching him, please?

“But when you say “partner”, then,” he goes on to inquire. “Do you mean a woman or a man?”

Richard chuckles. “Oh, _definitely_ a man. Haven’t done women in a while, and I think I’m done for the time being.”

“Well, then, in _that_ case,” Andrew says, suddenly business-like, chugging the rest of his wine and reaching a hand out to demand for Richard’s empty glass. “Let _me_ take care of you, lost boy. More champagne, and maybe your vision will be blurred enough by the end of the evening to allow you to mean it when you say I look good?” he says, smiling uncertainly and crossing his index and middle fingers on both his hands.

“I don’t need any wine for that, Andrew. You _do_ look good. You look like a million bucks. Let me tell you—the one who gets to take you home tonight is the luckiest man in the whole of Blighty.”

“Oh, Richard,” Andrew says, circling Richard to get closer to the door and moving near enough so he can whisper in his ear. “I thought you’d never ask.”

***

Andrew’s bedroom looks exactly like Richard expected it to. Minimalistic, simple, elegant. Grey and beige all over. Soothing. The only (pleasant) disruptions are the prints scattered around the walls, and the heavy curtains, now closed, whose colour matches the blue from the giant Miró painting that towers the head of the bed. The _original_? Richard wouldn’t be surprised if it were.

Not that he can actually _see_ anything, at the moment.

He seems to be blindfolded and kneeling on the carpet, wearing nothing but his boxers. His wrists are tied behind his back. The restraints are silk—luscious, and just the right amount of tight. And Richard’s tingling everywhere.

“My God, look at you, Richard,” Andrew says, the desire in his voice palpable. Richard feels him approach, and automatically his lips part in anticipation.

What they come into contact with is hard muscle—the chisel of Andrew’s abs, against which Andrew’s hands now in Richard’s hair are pushing him, encouragingly.

So Richard uses his mouth. He kisses and licks and nibbles and sucks, and he winces in pain and pleasure as Andrew pulls his hair, a little rough—he _loves_ it, and he wants _more_.

“Please, can I… Can you…”

“Use your words, pretty boy. I’m listening.”

The praise hits Richard, and he shudders.

“Can I suck you off, please?”

A deep, hoarse chuckle caresses Richard’s eardrums.

“Of course you can, darling. Remember, tonight’s all about you. What _you_ want,” Andrew says, surprisingly sweet, fondly caressing Richard’s hair.

Richard’s breath catches in his throat. He hasn’t been taken care of like this in a good while, and it’s wonderful.

“ _This_ is what I want. I want _you_. I want to lose control. Completely.”

He looks up. He can’t see anything, but he can _feel_ Andrew’s eyes piercing the blindfold and looking straight into his soul.

“Are you mine, tonight, Richard?”

“I’m yours, Andrew. Do whatever you like with me.”

Richard doesn’t have time to close his mouth after the words are out. His slightly parted lips are met with what is unmistakeably the head of Andrew’s cock—wet, plump, hot—and he can’t help the guttural moan escaping his throat as he opens his mouth fully and he welcomes the rest of him inside. He’s thick, but Richard knows he can take him.

A second hand comes to tangle into Richard’s hair as Andrew pushes in further. Richard relaxes his jaw, and he gets to work.

Andrew shudders when Richard hums around him, and he groans, loudly. It’s Richard’s favourite thing, coaxing these sounds out of men. They’re all different—some high and singing, some low and gravelly—but every single one of them, without exception, is the sweetest music to Richard’s ears.

He sucks on Andrew’s cock good and proper, swirling his tongue and hollowing his cheeks, looking up at him through the black silk and imagining him coming undone. He can’t help but purr as Andrew finally establishes a steady rhythm, fucking his mouth—just the right amount of rough, so that it doesn’t really hurt. He loses himself into the sensation of his mouth being able to do _this_. He could do this all night.

“You’re fucking _perfect_ , Richard, Jesus Christ…”

Andrew growls, proper Irish-Catholic-boy burr absolutely and irreparably flooded with blasphemy—and that’s hot, hot, hot, so _fucking_ hot—as he slows down just a tad, and he pulls on Richard’s hair again. Tonight, Richard is having his hair pulled more than he thinks he’s had in _years_ , and _fuck_ he loves it.

Seeing as the new wave of praise seems to have hit his cock in a matter of seconds, Richard decides to venture into deepthroating, to see if he can still do it.

He can.

Andrew curses. Some more profanities. _Wonderful_.

When he eventually starts inching out, Richard’s way of protesting materialises in the form of him hollowing his cheeks even more, as if it could be enough to retain Andrew, make him stay longer. He kind of succeeds, since Andrew’s tip lingers on his lips, and it’s even hotter and wetter than it was before, and Richard plants open-mouthed kisses on it, revelling in the way Andrew’s hips seem to involuntarily buck back into him.

“Alright, alright,” he says, panting. He takes a step back and Richard loses his grip on him, and he whimpers. “That was _transcendental_ , love. Wasn’t going to last,” he admits, running a thumb on Richard’s cheekbone, which is partially covered in silk. “I’m thinking—let’s get you on that bed. Let me take care of you, gorgeous man.”

“Yes, please,” Richard breathes, as he smiles up at him, dizzy from the slight oxygen deprivation. “I would like that very much.”

Andrew helps him on his feet. He’s slightly shorter and leaner than Richard, but he’s made of muscle—so it’s completely bloody effortless, and Richard feels _safe_. Safe and cherished and adored. This is all he ever wanted.

A gentle hand lands on the small of his back and pushes him forward slightly, guiding him. Richard starts walking and stops when he’s told.

Andrew starts planting fluttery kisses on Richard’s chest, working his way down to lick and bite around each nipple, then on Richard’s recently acquired six-pack—the abs that cost him hours of sleep and endless pain at the gym. He quickly discovers how absolutely fucking worth it that all might have been when he feels Andrew lick along the trail of hairs going from the waistband of his boxers up to his belly button, and he hears saying something about how _perfect_ Richard looks—and Richard’s so irreparably aroused, and he wants Andrew _so bad_ , he _needs_ him, he…

“Please, Andrew, _please_ take them off.”

“Very good, darling. Your wish is my command.”

Andrew’s fingers hook inside the waistband, and they start to pull his boxers off. It’s not too slow that Richard feels like his knees might give way, and it’s not too quick that it feels rushed and animalistic. It’s just right. Like everything else about Andrew—it’s flawless.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this, tonight, but… Fuck, you’re a Greek god, Richard Madden. I don’t even know where to start with you, love,” he says, from somewhere in the vicinity of Richard’s painfully hard cock. He can feel Andrew’s breath on it. It’s hot and heavy. He _wants_ him.

Richard grins, bites hard down his lower lip, and he feels himself blush. He knows for a _fact_ that his cock’s twitched, one second ago. He just gave himself away—and yet, he doesn’t give a fuck.

“Goodness,” Andrew says, appreciatively. He sounds pleasantly surprised. Richard hears the smile in his voice. “You like it, don’t you? When I tell you how pretty y’are?”

The accent. The accent. The _accent_.

Richard nods. He fights against his restraints a little, wishing he could touch Andrew, speak with his actions rather than use his words. But this is all about getting out of his comfort zone, after all, isn’t it? _Losing control_. So, he’s going to be vocal. He’s going to tell him.

“I never used to believe it. Still don’t, most days. But, when _you_ say it, I do.”

Andrew’s hands find Richard’s quads, and they squeeze lovingly. Then, warm lips kiss the inside of Richard’s thighs, lingering, _perfect_.

“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone more than I want you, right now, Richard.”

Richard feels, more blood run to his cock, and his balls draw up slightly. His whole body tenses and involuntarily leans forward—he needs more of Andrew, and he needs him now.

“You can have me. You can do whatever you want with me,” he says, reiterating his promise from a few minutes ago. “Like I said, I’m…”

“ _Mine_. Yes, Richard. Tonight, you’re mine. And I’m going to make you feel so good, darling, because you deserve it,” he says. His voice comes from higher up. He must be standing, then.

His suspicion is confirmed when Andrew kisses him, slow and tender but also deep and hungry, gripping his jaw with one hand and closing the other around his cock, sending sparks flying around his whole body.

“So hard for me already, eh?” Andrew murmurs, between kisses. Richard nods. Grins. Feels Andrew’s lips curl up into a smile, mirroring his own. He knows that smile very well, so it’s almost like he can see it. And it’s beautiful.

Andrew presses his body flush to Richard’s, reaches his arms around him and unties the restraints with one swift flick of his wrist. He does all this while kissing Richard’s neck, and the front of his trapezius muscle, and his collarbones—sweet, calculated, effortless. Richard sighs, and desperately leans into his touch.

As soon as they’re free, it’s almost mechanical for Richard’s hands to close around Andrew’s head and press him closer, encouraging him to deepen the kisses, because he needs more. Simultaneously, he pushes his groin into Andrew’s. When their erections graze, it’s _heaven_.

Richard’s hands wander down on Andrew’s neck—finally, he gets to _feel_ what Phoebe was on about—and his ripped shoulders, and then moves lower still and he’s hit hard by the way his triceps seem to stand out so perfectly when his arms are resting. Fuck, he’s unreal.

Richard has to scratch desperately at Andrew’s hairless chest and kiss and kiss and kiss him again. He’s _so_ turned on, and he wants it all.

“I… I need you. Now, please Andrew.”

“Yes, yes, love. Sit down for me. Let’s get you comfortable.”

The warmth is lost again as they shuffle around on the bed, Andrew instructing him to move higher up, until his head hits a fluffy pillow.

Then, he gently grabs one of Richard’s wrists again, and he pulls it up and away from his body. Richard feels soft silk and cold metal against his skin, and it’s quickly impossible to move his right hand away from the head of the bed. The same destiny befalls his left wrist, which is pulled in the opposite direction and attached every bit as carefully.

The result is that Richard is tied to the bed. He can’t see a thing. His legs are slightly sprawled. He’s naked. He’s hard.

In short, he feels more vulnerable than he’s ever felt in years. And he’s absolutely bloody loving it.

“I wish you could see yourself, love,” Andrew is saying, approvingly, from somewhere between Richard’s legs. “You’re a damn vision.”

Andrew’s mouth sinks down on his cock, effectively knocking all the air out of his lungs. Richard wants to cry out, but no sound escapes his lips. His whole body strains towards Andrew—he lifts his shoulders from the mattress, hisses at the cold metal digging into his wrists, and pushes his hips towards him, inadvertently hard.

“S-sorr… Oh, _fuck_ ,” he groans. He feels Andrew’s throat contract around him as the tip of his cock hits the back of it. Andrew moans, too, and he chuckles wickedly with his mouth full, and the vibration it sends through Richard is _delicious_.

Andrew then pushes Richard’s hamstrings up, encouraging him to bend his knees. Richard obliges, and he’s extremely glad he does—because, when Andrew hooks his arms around his quads and he feels the man’s ridiculously prominent biceps dig into the back of his legs, everything becomes clearer. They slot together so perfectly, and it’s so intimate and caring, and it’s _just what Richard needed_ , and Richard floats high and higher still, losing himself in the sensation.

He doesn’t know how much time Andrew spends going down on him. Could be minutes, hours, days, weeks—he really has no clue. The only things he’s sure of is that the pleasure he’s experiencing is absolute, that the darkness he’s immersed in thanks to the blindfold is complete, heightening every other stimulus around his body, and that the sensation of falling apart under the touch of a man who’s older, steadier, and sounder is really, really liberating.

Andrew edges him carefully, stopping when Richard’s breaths and moans start becoming shorter and closer together and kissing the inside of his thighs instead, or coming further down to slick his hole up as well, and it’s just the _sweetest_ torture.

Richard oscillates between losing his mind—whenever Andrew gets away from him, just as he’s about to _get_ there, that’s what it feels like—and swimming in pure fucking _bliss_ , as every inch of his body is worshipped, adored, venerated, as if he really was a Greek god, as if he was made of porcelain or even solid gold, every word of praise rolling off Andrew’s lips tingling the most remote parts of Richard’s brain and getting him harder, needier, closer, closer, closer.

“Need… you… to…” Richard tries, feeling his orgasm mount and desperately trying to fight it, wriggling hopelessly to let Andrew know he doesn’t want to come, not yet, not until he… ah, thank God he got the message. His mouth is off Richard’s cock in an instant, but there’s no loss of warmth this time, because Andrew quickly gets back to kissing every inch of him, moving up and up Richard’s body, until Richard feels his face hovering over his chest. His breathing has slowed down a bit, and he thinks he can finally complete his sentence. “…fuck me, Andrew. _Please_ , fuck me.”

“Yes, yes, love,” Andrew coos, kissing Richard’s neck and caressing his cheek with the back of his hand. “Can I…” he says, fingering the blindfold, teasingly. “Can I take this off you? Your eyes, they’re so beautiful. I would like to see them.”

“Hmm-hmm,” Richard nods, smiling coyly as he feels the umpteenth rush of blood to his overstimulated cock.

Andrew’s fingers are delicate as they can be, and the blindfold is off in a tick. Richard tentatively opens his eyes, half-expecting to be blinded by the light. Except, when he does, he discovers the room is immersed in a pleasant, deep orange hue.

Almost immediately after gaining his full sight back, Richard’s eyes feel compelled to close once more—Andrew’s lips are on his, and the kiss is deep and demanding, and it tests like _sex_. When they part, and Richard is utterly out of breath all over again, he can finally focus on Andrew’s handsome face, furrowed in concentration as he gets a bottle of lube from the top of his bedside table—he keeps it _out of his drawer_. Richard considers that for a split-second and concludes that it’s very _fucking_ hot.

“Want me to undo your wrists too, gorgeous?” Andrew says, lifting Richard’s chin with two fingers and penetrating him with those deep brown eyes.

Richard grins. He deliberately moves his arms against the restraints, flexing his biceps and deltoids and leaning upwards, thoroughly enjoying Andrew’s hungry on his body as he does so. Then he shakes his head. “’m good. I like them. I never get to do this.”

“Fuck, Richard. You’re unreal. You were _wasted_ on all those boys, darling.”

“Thank God I came to my senses, eh?” Richard says, his smile widening as he hears more than sees Andrew pop the lid off the bottle of lube. He’s lost in his eyes, his perfect skin, his hair—his beautiful, _beautiful_ face. “Thank God you scooped me up, tonight, really.”

Andrew kisses him again, pressing his head back into the pillow. Richard listens to the familiar sound of lube being squirted out of the bottle and he keeps his eyes closed for a second. He feels Andrew’s hand move over his body, feather like, hovering over his skin, until the cold sensation of one finger pressing against his hole makes his eyes pop open, and a loud moan escape his mouth.

What he’s met with is Andrew’s face, sporting a concerned expression.

“I’m good. It’s great. Just… been a while, I s’pose,” Richard admits, shrugging as much as he can while his arms are still attached on opposite sides of the bed.

Andrew rolls his eyes dramatically, and he shakes his head. “ _Definitely_ wasted,” he says, smirking, as he presses his finger in a bit further. He clearly knows what he does, because as soon as he’s all the way in he curls it upwards and… _fuck_.

“Look at how pretty y’are, Richard,” he purrs, moving his finger in and out slowly and methodically, making Richard powerfully squirm and twist against his restraints. Barely thirty seconds in, he feels wetness leaking onto his stomach from his neglected cock. A moment after, Andrew’s tongue is there, lapping up the few drops of precum, like it’s ambrosia. “So, so pretty.”

Richard instinctively widens his legs further. “More, _please_ , more…”

Andrew retracts his finger and goes back in with a second, already slicked. Richard feels both push into him, and he’s surprised when he realises it’s not even a bit uncomfortable—it’s just _wonderful_. Andrew’s fingers are long and slim and perfect, and they go straight back in the most effortless way possible, and it feels so _good_ , and Richard just can’t bloody believe his luck.

A few minutes in, he’s a full whiny mess. He whimpers and grinds his hips down to fuck himself as deep as he can onto Andrew’s fingers, and words are coming out of his mouth again, and they’re almost spelling out the word _another_. He’s prepared to beg—he _wants_ to beg—but Andrew is very clearly determined not to make him wait a single second.

Three fingers it is, then, and the stretch is _delightful_. Richard arches his back and clenches around them, revelling in the constant praise coming from Andrew’s voice, the jolts of pure electricity sparking from the fingertips rubbing against his prostate, and just how incredibly light his body and mind feel, at the moment. Losing control really was the answer all along, it seems.

Richard reaches a tipping point when Andrew starts scissoring his fingers inside him and deliberately goes back to using his mouth, biting the soft skin around Richard’s groin, cleaning the precum from his lower stomach once again, and then planting a long, tongue-charged kiss on the tip of Richard’s cock.

It’s a single moment, when the build-up of sensations gets too much. A moment when he’d like to cry out, implore Andrew to stop, or else—but he’s immediately aware that the explosion will happen with or without his brain’s permission.

He fully surrenders to it, then. He pushes his pelvis down, lets Andrew’s knuckles dig into his tailbone, and arches his back, straining his arms painfully against his restraints—and he comes, hard, shameless, clenching around the beautiful fingers inside him. His cock is completely untouched, until Andrew takes it back into his mouth, and it gets deep inside him, and he sucks on it as Richard cries out in ecstasy, riding what probably is the best orgasm of his life and never wanting it to end.

“Gorgeous, love,” Andrew says, licking on Richard’s pelvis and stomach to pick up the residual evidence of mind-bending pleasure that he didn’t manage to catch in time. “Just… look at you, Richard, you’re _flawless_ ,” he continues, punctuating his words with wet kisses around Richard’s groin.

Richard’s chest is still heaving from climaxing harder and faster than expected, and yet he feels another sudden and completely overwhelming rush of blood reach his cock and make his brain tingle at the same time. It’s not the aftershock, either—that’s died down a while ago. No, this is all to be pinned on the words of adoration flowing out of Andrew’s mouth.

It’s the months dying in the gym at 4 A.M., the stupid protein shakes, the infinite chicken breasts, the _no, Richard, no ice cream for you, love_ ’s, the endless hours spent in front of the mirror, looking at the statuary body in front of him and still seeing nothing but a wee fat teenager, and feeling that monster trying to rip him apart from the inside, telling him it’s all a big old fraud. That he will _never_ be beautiful.

Richard doesn’t know what it is about Andrew that makes him want to believe what he says—but, fuck it, he _does_. Tonight, he really does. And he wants Andrew more than he ever wanted anyone else in his life.

When he looks down at the man who made the population of an entire country sigh in unison as they more than happily condoned actual blasphemy, Richard is finally able to see the devotion and the hunger in those dark eyes, and it’s the most mesmerising thing, and he wants more—he wants it all.

“I want you inside me,” he declares, surprised at how clear and firm his voice sounds, when inside he’s quivering, burning away, consumed by the need to be full once again, to feel that connection with him, to become fully _his_. “I want to touch you, feel all of you. Please, please, I _need_ you…”

At those words, Andrew interrupts the string of dutiful kisses around Richard’s newly re-awoken nether regions to growl and bite down on one of the softest bits of skin, pulling at it as he fucks Richard with his eyes. “You… fuck, you’re such a pretty thing, love. Asking so nicely, too… Of course I’ll untie you. But only if you promise you’ll be rough. Don’t hold out on me. Bite me, scratch me up, _mark_ me, Richard Madden.”

Richard hums in appreciation and longing—another powerful rush of blood flowing down, his cock hardening again, teeth automatically biting on his lip so hard that he thinks he can taste iron—and he nods, eagerly.

It’s really happening. Andrew is going to take care of him. Make love to him, fuck him, make him lose his mind.

Richard wants to let the man do whatever he wants, abandon himself to it completely. He barely notices that he’s closed his eyes again—perhaps in an attempt to make up for the loss of the blindfold—nor does he really feel the seconds pass. He’s melting away, passive, pliant, squirming with desire, but he does register the sounds around him. They’re the usual ones, familiar and safe, but somehow, right now, with Andrew, they feel new. And _terribly_ exciting.

The sound of a condom wrapper, being ripped and landing somewhere on the floor.

The sound of more lube being squirted out of the bottle.

The wet, delicious sound of Andrew’s lubricated hand and his cock finding each other—slow, loud, pornographic strokes, making Richard’s arousal mount and prompting him to widen his legs a tad more.

The soft sound of the silk restraints coming undone, and the blood flowing back to Richard’s fingertips, waking them up once again.

It all seems to come together in such a way that, when Richard’s wrists are finally untied and his hands are free to roam, he can wrap himself entirely around Andrew at last, adhering every inch of him to that wonderful body, and he feels it all so goddamn powerfully.

His arms closing around Andrew’s lean, muscular top, mindlessly clawing at his back.

His legs clutching Andrew’s pelvis, heels digging into his hamstrings and pulling him closer.

Lips desperately looking for lips, and being immediately obliged—slowly, deeply, longingly.

Richard allows himself to open his eyes, then. Andrew is on top of him, his mouth curled up into a sweet, caring smile. “Hey, gorgeous,” he says.

“Hey,” Richard replies, grinning back at him. This feels so _right_. “Are you mine too, then?” he asks, unable to help himself.

Andrew’s face turns a light shade of pink. His biceps contracts as he shifts around slightly, and—oh, fuck, his _arms_. He caresses one of Richard’s cheekbones with his thumb and smiles more broadly still. “Yes, yes, love. Yes, I’m yours.”

That’s when Richard feels it—the head of Andrew’s cock pressing against his hole. It’s tentative and light, barely grazing him, as if he was asking for permission. “Mine,” Richard breathes. “Want you… please…” he moans, desperately trying to go down on the bed to push himself against Andrew and take what he needs.

Andrew nods frantically, kisses him desperately, and finally, _finally_ breaches him. Richard feels every inch of his cock slide in—and the stretch is so good, and it feels so _fated_ , too, like the last two pieces of a puzzle, clicking together to finally complete the picture, and Richard can’t help but writhe and let out a long, loud groan at the sensation.

“Fuck, Richard, you’re so _tight_ …” Andrew breathes, shakily, against his neck. The lust in his voice is palpable, and it sends a shiver down Richard’s spine.

“Told ye it’s… ughhh _yes_ , like that,” he has to interrupt himself, because Andrew is starting to move, and it’s slow and deliberate and it’s hitting him in all the right spots, and he wants _more_. “It’s… been a while,” he finishes, not quite sure where the words are coming from.

“I’ll be gentle, I promise,” Andrew whispers, his silky Irish brogue soft against Richard’s ears.

“You don’t… hmmm… _have to be_ ,” Richard lets out, with much difficulty, as Andrew pushes in once more and brushes against his prostate and lightning strikes around his whole body. “Yours, remember?”

“Hmm-hmm,” Andrew murmurs, raising his head once again to re-establish eye contact. Slides out again, slowly, slowly, slowly—it’s _excruciating_. “Beautiful. Let me hear you, love.”

He pushes in more roughly, then, and Richard’s breath catches in his throat. He moans, and he’s obscenely loud, and it’s _liberating_. He might be overstimulated, sure, but the way Andrew is moving his hips, ploughing into him, pushing all his buttons, is driving him completely fucking insane. He digs his fingernails into Andrew’s back, pulls him closer, and bites down on the firm flesh of his neck.

The rhythm Andrew establishes is reasonably mellow at first. He seems to want to get Richard used to the sensation, working him up leisurely, and praising him endlessly throughout. At every masterful stroke against the sweet spot inside him, Richard’s toes curl and endorphins flood his brain, and he can’t help but smile—he hasn’t been fucked like this in _years_ , and he hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it. His cock is painfully hard again, and it’s rubbing against Andrew’s abs at each shove of his hips, and he distinctly feels wetness leaking from it as he claws at Andrew’s back, looking for more proximity, more friction, just _more_.

There’s persistent eye contact. It’s loving, and it’s caring, and it’s amazing, and it’s pushing Richard towards the edge, and it’s painfully slow…

Until it’s not.

At some point, Andrew groans forcefully, and something shifts. He shoves himself in once more, rough, calculated, and he pushes Richard’s arms down on the mattress, pinning him to it, fingers pressing hard into his triceps and looking at him like he’s the most gorgeous creature he’s ever laid eyes on—and also like he wants to _devour_ him.

“Oh, _God_ yes,” Richard purrs, as he deliberately writhes against Andrew’s touch, fake-struggling, revving himself up even more. “Fuck me like this. Fuck me _hard_.”

Andrew smiles a sinful, impossible smile, and he thrusts inside Richard again. Once. Twice. Three times. Richard winces and whines and begs for more. Andrew gives him his all.

He fucks Richard deep and hard and strong, holding him onto the bed and slamming his hips against Richard’s arse and the back of his thighs, pressing his legs further up so that Richard is as strained and open and perfectly angled as he can be. The _noises_ that makes. Richard could come from those alone.

Except, of course, there’s also the whole _amazing_ set of electric shocks hitting all corners of his brain every few seconds, as Andrew rolls his hips and rubs his prostate in the most delicious of ways, grunting and humming in delight.

“I’ve… _dreamed_ … about… doing… this… ever… since… we… met…” Andrew says, shakily, punctuating every word with a calculated thrust, coaxing loud moans out of Richard. He stills, then. Just resting inside Richard. Pushing his legs open once again, so he can bend over and cover him fully. He starts nibbling on Richard’s earlobe, kissing his neck. A brief, gravelly laugh escapes his throat as he whispers, “Ever since I saw you in that uniform… _Unreal_ , how good you looked.”

At that, Richard feels Andrew _harden_ inside him, and he’s done for.

“Do I need to tell you I’ve… oh, _fuck_ , yes, do that again, please…” Richard says, interrupting himself as Andrew bites hard on the side of his neck and moves once again, slow and deliberate, forcing him to close his eyes and making him see a whole set of galaxies. Andrew does it again, and Richard’s in heaven.

Heaven.

Somewhere none of them is going—that’s for fucking sure.

“I…” Richard starts again, desperately fighting the second wave of climax that is building up inside him. He _needs_ to say this. “I’ve spent _hours_ alone with the confessional scene,” he admits, unashamedly, fixing his gaze on Andrew’s dark, lust-filled eyes. “On multiple occasions. It’s been a _hoot_ , every single time.”

Andrew chuckles again, deep and throaty—a laugh that turns into a roar against Richard’s skin, as he bites on his collarbone and scratches at his left pec. “Have you, _noo_?”

“Hmm-hmm,” Richard hums, hissing in surprise and delight as Andrew serves him with three more thrusts. He threads his fingers inside Andrew’s hair and pulls him closer, encouraging more biting, scratching, _anything_.

Andrew, it seems, is still in the mood for talking.

“Oh, go on, then. Say it.”

His tone is firm. Commanding. Not at all ironic. Somehow, Richard knows exactly what he’s talking about.

“ _Father_.”

Andrew purrs, as he kisses up Richard’s neck, his jawline, and stills against his cheek. “Good boy, Richard. You’re so _good_.”

The power emanating from those words—it’s _intoxicating_. Richard wants more.

“Please, could ye…” he starts, and is interrupted by another set of perfectly calculated thrusts, that make him feel so good he thinks he could _cry_. “Could you… put your hand over my mouth?”

“Fuck, Richard,” Andrew says, breathless. He sounds incredulous, like he can’t believe his eyes and ears—and Richard feels it again, then. The cock inside him, hardening a tad more still.

“I want you to make me _scream_ ,” Richard says, simply, smirking, as cheeky as he can muster. “But I’d hate for you to get noise complaints.”

Andrew rolls his eyes and smiles again—that beautiful, _beautiful_ smile that lights up his whole face. A few drops of sweat pool inside the small wrinkles around his eyes. “So thoughtful of you. So considerate,” he says, as he cups his left hand over Richard’s mouth. Richard mindlessly pouts his lips to kiss the palm of it, because it feels like it’s the right thing to do. “Let’s see just how loud you can be, then, gorgeous, shall we?”

 _Yes, Father_ , Richard wants to reply—but he can’t really articulate with a hand pressed against his mouth. So he nods frantically, hums in assent, and nibbles lightly at the inside of one of Andrew’s fingers.

What happens next is Andrew roughly grabs Richard left thigh, fingers digging deep and strong inside the flesh there, and _please, God, let there be marks tomorrow_ , and Richard’s eyes instantly roll back into his skull as Andrew fucks him harder and faster, and it’s _good, so good_ , better than it’s ever been.

It’s like his entire body is set alight, then. On the rare occasions he manages to keep his eyes open, Richard finds Andrew’s are planted on him, looking down at his face like he’s the most perfect creature alive.

Andrew’s not talking, but Richard _feels_ the praise everywhere. It’s flowing silently all over him. _Into_ him.

It’s the cock hitting the sweetest spot inside him, tireless and merciless.

It’s that gaze, luxurious like dark chocolate.

It’s the hand on his mouth, muffling cries and pleas and desperate moans.

It’s the heat of the body above him, strong and lean and perfect, enveloping him and making him feel warm and safe and loved.

And it’s, quite simply, all too much.

Richard’s orgasm hits him very, very quickly. It’s as if someone dropped a lit match on a pile of straw soaked in petrol. He feels it in his nether regions, in his brain, in every single nerve ending, in his _heart_. It’s his whole body catching fire. It’s explosive.

He arches his back into it, into Andrew, and fully lets himself go. He cries out in complete bliss, rolling his head back and relishing the roughness, the submission—the very human yet impossibly intimate act of coming completely undone in front of someone. Richard is utterly exposed, and yet he finds he’s completely comfortable, and could this maybe the spark everyone keeps talking to him about, the one thing making people click together during intimacy that also means that this might well be meant to happen?

Andrew’s hand is off his mouth, sliding to the side and grabbing his jaw, a thumb stroking his cheek as their lips crash together and they smile and moan into each other’s mouths, and it’s just so _easy_ and so _beautiful_.

Andrew simply won’t stop telling him how pretty he is, how incredible, how absolutely bloody perfect this feels, and it’s only a matter of time before his thrusts start to stutter significantly and he buries his head inside the crook of Richard’s neck and bites and sucks on the sensitive skin there, grabbing a blind and incredibly effective hold of both of Richard’s wrists and pinning them against the mattress as he fucks into him one, two, three times more and he comes too, hard, deep, hopeless. A string of delicious profanities rolls off his tongue, then—green Irish brogue stained with red hot blasphemy, flooding every corner of Richard and making him pleasantly light-headed.

It’s everything, and he never wants it to end.

But of course, like all good things, it ultimately does. Even then, though—as Andrew is sliding out of him and swiftly grabbing some tissues and cleaning them both up as best as he can—he feels it. The attention, the care, the quick, sure-fire chemistry between them.

_Could this be…?_

“Don’t move, gorgeous” Andrew says, leaning over Richard and pecking his lips. “Be right back.”

He disappears into what Richard can assume is an ensuite bathroom and emerges approximately thirty seconds later holding a couple of light blue towelettes. He joins Richard back on the bed, sits on the edge of it. Asks for permission. He doesn’t need to, but _fuck_ it’s nice.

“May I?”

“Yes, please,” Richard replies running a hand on his arm, drinking in every little curve of the muscle there, every twist, every tense bit, every shadow.

The towelette is wet and warm against Richard’s skin. Andrew’s touch is delicate and meticulous, scrubbing gently to remove every trace of stickiness, completing the whole treatment by leaving a trail of small kisses on the clean skin of Richard’s abdomen. 

“Thank you,” Richard says, in a whisper, as Andrew finally rests back next to him on the bed. He’s turned on his side, propping his head up on his hand, his elbow digging into the pillow, grinning. He’s looking at Richard that _way_ again. Like he’s _precious_. Someone to be cherished, loved, worshipped.

Richard’s never had anyone look at him that way.

“What?” he asks, smiling too, unable to help himself. The giddiness emanating from Andrew is definitely contagious.

“Nothing, love. I was just thinking… You, in my bed. Never in my wildest dreams have I ever imagined this would happen. And you’re thanking _me_? Nah, love. Thank _you_. You’re a gift from God.”

“Slipping back into it, are we?” Richard jokes, reaching a hand up to caress Andrew’s cheek with his thumb. Andrew rolls his eyes. Blushes.

“Shut up and kiss me, you fool,” Andrew says, leaning in and eyeing Richard’s lips. Richard inches closer, but doesn’t quite close the distance between them. He just rests there, fixing his gaze on Andrew’s and feeling hot breath on his mouth.

“Or what?” he asks, smiling wickedly.

“I won’t let you leave this bed until you do.”

Richard raises an eyebrow and smirks. “I wasn’t planning on going anywhere, actually.”

Andrew’s whole face lights up. Richard chuckles, closes his eyes, and finally kisses him. As soon as their lips touch, he’s suddenly very sure of something.

 _Yes, yes, yes. It most definitely_ could _be._

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it through, thank you. I hope you enjoyed this.
> 
> If you're a fan of our boy Richard, please consider peeping [my author's page](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus)—there's a lot more where this came from.
> 
> Love you all, 
> 
> C xx


End file.
